Should I be an artist or writer; words or pictures? I couldn’t decide. The authorities said I was able at both. A travel writer-photographer, they suggested. But that’s not me. And speaking of travel I knew job one would be simply staying out of Nam. Which I managed by marrying at eighteen, fathering at nineteen. Then, in time, semi-solving the original dilemma by becoming a magazine art director. But art director's words and pictures are usually never they’re own. So I settled in and fell asleep, figuring that was my lot.

Then suddenly there was Barbara Kruger who proved art could be made of words and pictures. Then came graphic novels. And there was always graffiti, then newer graffiti. I’m not talking pieces but tags atop tags, tags that were nothing more than words, upon words, upon words where faces emerged and more words created, the simplest of words—exclamations and interjections, the true grit of our grammar.